


Time Color Of Hope

by aaa_mazing



Category: QAF USA
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaa_mazing/pseuds/aaa_mazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Justin leaves, it isn't as big a deal as I would imagine. ... It's not a big deal when he comes back home, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Color Of Hope

**September**

 

It isn’t as big a deal as I would imagine. It’s not the end of the world, or apocalypse, or whatever people thought it would be. Nothing of a Shakespearean drama.

 

Justin gives me a call when his plane lands in the airport of New York.

 

Then another one in a couple of hours when he finally arrives at the ‘oh-my-God-Brian-so tiny-not-bigger-than-a-matchbox’ apartment, having paid ‘oh-my-God-Brian-half-of-my-month-diner-salary’ for a taxi.

 

“I already miss you, you know.” He makes it sound light, feigns nonchalance.

 

The silence hangs in the air for longer than I know he’d like to.

 

“Try to have some sleep.” We both hardly had any sleep last night.

 

“Later?” he asks warily.

 

“Later.” I try it not to sound like a promise.

 

I suspect it does anyway. 

 

**October**

When my sleep-deprived brain functions again, I’m so thinking about an effective way to murder and dismember an inanimate object. An alarm clock. The fucking alarm clock!

 

Justin is having nightmares again. I could have told him it is because he is far away from his family. He misses people.

 

But I don’t. I’m not a shrink. I pour myself some scotch, nursing the familiar weight of the tumbler in my hand, and talk to him. Random things; Emmett’s new love of the week, Michael's ridiculous bedroom wallpaper, Gus’ art class and his crush on the Math teacher, Miss Brenda. I take pokes at Justin about his tendency to gnaw pencils – Mother Taylor is always willing to share – and he reminds me that I used to eat apples with cores. Deb. The Biggest Mouth on the Liberty Avenue Award holder.

 

He’s already snoring when I sit here in the darkness, cradling the phone.

 

My glass is still full.

 

 

**November**

 

“I won’t make it this time, Brian!” He sounds desperate. “Two more studies in oils, and I’m so behind the schedule!”

 

It’s been two months, and the Picasso already has a schedule. Maybe it’s not The Museum of Modern Art. Yet. But that’s a start. And it makes him happy.

 

“Justin!” I try to talk him down through all his ‘my-God-why-am-I-so-slow?’s. “Listen to me.”

 

He pauses.

 

“Are you listening? It’s okay. It really is. Do what you have to do.”

 

“But Brian…” He starts.

 

“You can come to the Pits…” Fuck it! “You can come home next month.”

 

He sighs heavily and says nothing.

 

I think I might make a raid on New York boutiques this weekend.

 

 

**December**

 

I’m watching Justin migrate out of one bear hug right into the other when I feel a touch on my shoulder. Pancakes and cinnamon. Deb.

 

“Proud of your little Sunshine, aren’t you?” Her smile reminds me why I like to be here.

 

I try to roll my eyes. “Little? Don’t underestimate the guy.”

 

She squeezes my shoulder a bit tighter for a moment, and leaves to check if Em’s cry from the kitchen ‘Deb, my ass in on fire’ is as close to the truth as it sounds.

 

Of course, ‘little Sunshine’ has already shared the news about selling three of his works. He said, amazed and self-satisfied, that wow, art can earn living.

 

What he doesn’t say is that the lion’s share of the money paid a part of his tuition debt.

 

I take the money.

 

You want to be your own man, Sunshine? Be one.

 

And I am. Proud.

 

 

**January**

 

God, did I miss this. Justin has many talents, from percolating the best coffee to giving the most fantastic head. But dancing…dancing is his inborn gift.

 

His pliant body, molded into mine, with the energy buzzing through it is a turn-on by default. It’s all sorts of illegal, this swing of hips that brings him impossibly closer to me. Into me.

 

“I missed Babylon.” His hot breath tickles my ear. “So many men.”

 

I pull away a few inches to look at him. He is young. He still is so fucking young.

 

I push him away, lightly, mockingly. “Go for them.”

 

He steps back, smiles, and fishes a condom out of his pocket.

 

I watch him brush past a hot tall twink, nudging him with his shoulder. A very unwelcome burn rushes

through my abdomen and sticks in the pit of my stomach.

 

Justin turns to me then, the condom squeezed between his two fingers, and mouths two simple, silent words. “Fuck me.”

 

Who am I to deny him?

 

 

**February**

 

“Justin?”

 

“Hello to you too, Brian.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Well, yes. I guess. Gus is here.” Things are always better when my son is here.

 

“And? What are you two doing?” I hear envy seeping in his voice: he misses Gus.

 

“Watching TV.” I’m not good at what else to do with a kid. “And there’s this cartoon. Well, about a piece of cheese, walking around and talking to other strange creatures.”

 

His laugh tingles in the phone. “It’s sponge, Brian. Sponge Bob.”

 

Sponge. Uh-huh. “Is it okay that Gus likes it?” Modern cartoons make you worry about your kid’s mental health.

 

“I think so. He’s too young for James Dean anyway.”

 

He goes silent. I never got it before how silence can be comfortable. I do now.

 

“Brian?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“I love you.”

 

I watch my son, following the adventures of cheese-sponge Bob, wearing the Ice Age – speak of strange creatures - t-shirt Justin brought him.

 

“We love you too.”

 

Modern cartoons do have something to do with mental health.

 

 

**March**

 

I pull out of Justin. As gently as I possibly can, but he still winces a little.

 

“I hate it.” Justin exhales. He looks debauched and peaceful, disheveled and relaxed all at the same time. The expression that makes me believe – as frightening an admission as it is – that my vocabulary of ‘sex’, ‘fuck’ and ‘trick’ is way too poor to comprehend some things. Anything about him.

 

“That’s a part of it.” My thumb gathers little droplets of sweat on his forehead.

 

“You know what I mean.” He nudges my nose with his.

 

I do.

 

My flight is in two hours, which means we only have time for a quick shower and a silent trip to the airport through the ever traffic-jammed roads of New York.

 

 

**April**

 

Central Park is beautiful in spring. Or so Justin says.

 

The sun is blinding, the unblemished sky seems impossibly high. The air smells of fresh grass and spring rain. Or so Justin says.

 

The day is perfect for unhurried walks and devouring sinful amounts of street vendor stuff. Or so Justin says.

 

Gus seems to totally agree. My own offspring is a traitor.

 

I watch them feed pigeons. At least, there goes the better part of their hotdogs. Gus points at a bird, then looks at Justin questioningly, his eyebrow raised, his eyes wide. Justin nods, says something to him, and my son smiles open and happy.

 

Central park in spring is alright.

 

 

**May**

 

“I can only explain it by the fact that you learned from the master.” I try to catch my breath, licking my suddenly dry lips. I wonder if there is any body fluid left in me. Hardly, judging by the huge wet spot on the sheets under me.

 

Justin gives me a very self-satisfied grin, which I hurry to wipe off his face with my lips.

 

“You know you like it from time to time, you big old top.” He slips off me, and flops on his back.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” I shift and feel the sting in my ass.

 

I’m sure I’ll feel it for a while after he’s gone.

 

Not that I mind it.

 

 

**June**

 

I am beat. Fucking mansion. Fucking stupid little twat.

 

‘Brian, I have this new design for Britin!’ ‘No! I want to choose paint/wallpaper/panels by myself!’

 

Hours, I swear, hours of shopping for two cans of paint. I choose a whole brand new collection for a season faster than Justin chooses the ‘right’ color. Like it matters what color the windowsills are.

 

I flop on the sofa stretching my legs across his lap. At least, I deserved a massage.

 

He starts to rub the tired muscles of my calves, I start to relax and enjoy the manipulations and think of whatever follows.

 

His cell rings.

 

He smiles apologetically and fishes it out of his pocket.

 

“Yes. Hi, Billy. No, Billy. I said no!” His features are not so soft anymore. “What part of NO don’t you get? I want them exactly where I showed you. On the black background. Or you get nothing at all.” He says it calm but firm.

 

I can’t avert my eyes from him. Maybe because it’s one of those times when I see a man before me. Not a boy, not a ‘stupid little twat’. A man.

 

Justin reaches for a pad and takes notes between yeses, nos, no ways, and what the hell fors.

When the talk reduces to Justin’s nods, I make an attempt to get up. Justin grabs my ankle to stop me.

 

He faces his notepad to me. The first page of it reads:

 

“Three abstracts, two stills, two portraits. July, 28th. Soho.

 

I am having a show. Woo-hoo.

 

I want your dick. 

 

:)”

 

:)? Stupid little twat!

 

 

**July**

 

It’s hot. It’s insanely hot. The air melts bodies.

 

We haven’t fucked for hours. A pathetic waste of time this heat is, I tell you.

 

Justin feeds me tons of ice cream which doesn’t help any. But my heat-damaged brain has to admit that flavored kisses do taste better.

 

Remind me why am I not pampering my gorgeous body somewhere on the sea shore? Oh yes, because somebody has his first solo show in a week and needs his inspiration here beside him.

 

His inspiration. You dare to call me a ‘muse’ one more time, Sunshine, and the world of art will lose a young talented artist.

 

How am I supposed to survive a couple of hours in a tux in this heat? He is so paying me for this.

 

Justin patters from the shower to his easel with nothing but his black briefs on.

 

I close my eyes and think of all the vicious kinds of punishment he deserves.

 

I drift away with the feel of his fingers in my hair and the taste of force-fed-(not), tiramisu flavored ice cream on my tongue.

 

 

**August**

 

It’s not a big deal when he comes back home, too.

 

He opens the door of the loft, leans against the door frame with the duffel bag I swear to stuff into the dumpster every time I see it. I hate it, officially.

 

I can say it’s not another visit by the glint in his eyes.

 

I fuck him into the metal door, not even making sure it’s closed.

 

“Hey,” says Justin’s half of a messy heap on the floor.

 

“Hey.” I will blame my instinctive reflexes for the sheepish smile later.

 

Justin kicks the duffel bag and I honestly hope I won’t see it any time soon. “There will be more.” He warns.

 

“You better squinch all your shit in your drawers.”

 

He smiles. The fucker knows there’s enough place for him here.

 


End file.
